


A Love Like War

by Preach



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence, Choking, Complete, Consent Issues, Cousin Incest, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No Character Death, Pining, Post-Canon, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-24 07:50:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13806777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Preach/pseuds/Preach
Summary: T'Challa rescues Erik after their final battle. But when Erik wakes up, he doesn't have any memories of his past. (COMPLETE)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Любовь как война](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14001879) by [kotokoshka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kotokoshka/pseuds/kotokoshka)



_Darkness_. 

_A roaring sound in his ears._

_Cold._

_A murmur, a rushing whisper._

_Pain._

_A voice, from far away, a distant memory. "Hush. Sleep, now."_

* * *

 

Erik wakes up. 

"What?" he says, for no apparent reason. He sits up. 

He's in a strange room. _White_ is his first impression, all sleek stark walls and smooth glossy surfaces. He's resting on one of these surfaces, a flat plane of some unidentifiable material that gently curves to meet the slant of his body. On the wall to his left, there's a blue digital projection of some sort, tracking his vitals. Erik stares in momentary fascination at the little electronic diagram of his body, tracing the spiking waves of his beating heart. 

There's a sound of a throat being cleared to his right.

Erik jerks his head around.

Two people are standing on Erik's right. A dark-skinned young girl, in her late teens or early twenties, with her hair in buns and a look of concentration on her face. She's fiddling with a beaded bracelet on her wrist, avoiding his gaze.

But what really catches Erik's attention is the man to her side. He has close-cropped curly hair and high cheekbones showing strongly under his smooth brown skin. His eyes, though... his eyes are warm dark pools, deep and unfathomably sad. 

He's the most beautiful man that Erik has ever laid eyes upon. 

"Hey, handsome," Erik grins, swinging his legs down to graze the floor. He smirks at the mystery man, appreciating the way his eyes widen in surprise. "What's your name?" 

The young woman sputters in shock. The mystery man takes a sharp step back, mouth falling open.

Erik gets the distinct impression that he's missing something. 

"You...you don't know who I am?" the man asks, cautiously. 

Erik frowns. "Should I? Have we met?"

The man and woman exchange looks. This time, Erik _knows_ that he's missing something. Something vitally important. 

"I..." the man says, apparently at a loss for words. There's a long pause before he finally says, quietly, "I am T'Challa, and this is my sister Shuri. We....have met."

"T'Challa." Erik repeats, letting the name roll around in his mouth, on his lips. It sounds...familiar. There's a weight to the name that he can't quite place. As if the name ought to mean _something_ to him, a name which he had repeated to himself more than once, on some dark night. A name which his body - his lips and his tongue and his teeth - remembered, even if he did not.  

"Why don't I remember you two?" Erik asks abruptly. He can feel the beginnings of panic rising in him, a clenching in his chest. He raises his right hand to run his fingers through his hair, and realises to his shock that there are _bumps_ all over his hands. Little raised scars that seem to have been deliberately placed to cover the entirety of his arms. Looking down at himself, Erik can see that the scars spread all the way across his chest and legs. The mysterious little scars even trail down towards the waistband of his pants. He gets the feeling that they go _quite_ a long way down. 

"Retrograde amnesia!" the girl - Shuri? - exclaims. She's fiddling with her bracelet again, and with the twist of one little glowing bead, the projection on the wall changes. Now, it zooms in to a schema of his brain, with various areas lighting up in apparently random patterns. It means nothing to Erik, but Shuri somehow seems able to make sense of it all. "Most likely trauma-induced," she announces. "Seems like there's  been some damage to the regions associated with episodic and declarative memory..."

"I've lost my memory?" Erik asks. "Why? What happened to me?"

His fists clench, and to Erik's shock he can feel the rippling power of the muscles in his arms - the way his skin tightens around the strange raised scars. The coiled tension within as adrenaline floods through his blood and calls his reflexes awake.

This is the body of a _warrior_. A dangerous man.

T'Challa shifts slightly towards Shuri, casually inserting his body as a barrier between Erik and Shuri, his eyes never leaving Erik's. _He's afraid_ , Erik realises.  _He's worried that I might hurt her._

_Why? What did I do? What have I done?_

Erik slowly releases his fists, turning his palms upwards in a conciliatory gesture. T'Challa relaxes. 

"We were fighting." T'Challa answers quietly. "You were grievously injured. Shuri managed to save you, but it seems that you...it seems that your memory was damaged."

"Who were we fighting?" Erik asks, puzzled. He can't _remember_. His head is spinning. "Did we win? Is the danger over?"

T'Challa winces. Shuri glances between them, wanting to say something but unsure what.

"Ah, well, that is to say..." T'Challa stammers. He looks to Shuri for help, and Shuri cuts right in, "We fought _you_!"

" _What?_ "

"You tried to kill us! You wanted the throne! You tried to take over Wakanda and give our weapons to the world!"

"Shuri!" T'Challa exclaims.

"What? I'm _right_."

But T'Challa is shaking his head slowly, eyes on Erik. "He is no longer the same man."

Speechless, Erik sits back down. Shuri's words have the ring of truth to them. He doesn't remember anything concrete at all - no clear images - but her words stir up flashes of emotion within him.

_Kill_. A dark, pounding bloodlust, gone as quickly as it rose. 

_Throne_. Cold ambition, mixed with a jealousy so bone-deep that he immediately recoils from the greasy-slick feeling of it. Gone, again, in a flash. 

_Wakanda_...Pain. That word, though unfamiliar,  _hurts_. This pain lingers, like a barb stuck deep in his heart.

Unconsciously, Erik reaches up to rub his chest. His fingers meet...a scar? Erik absentmindedly traces the thick ropey scar tissue, like a brand spreading across his chest, wondering how he got it. 

"Do you remember now?" T'Challa asks gently, bending down towards Erik. This close, Erik can see that his eyes are filled with compassion, and something darker.

Erik turns his head. He can't quite meet T'Challa's gaze. "No," he admits. 

T'Challa stands up abruptly. "We need to discuss this with the Council," he tells Shuri. "Things have changed." 

"You're the boss," Shuri says, shrugging. 

_She means the king,_ Erik realises with a jolt. This was the man he had tried to kill? T'Challa? T'Challa, with his warm voice and sad brown eyes?

Erik swallows. His hands are cold. _The hands of a killer,_ he thinks to himself. 

"I will return," T'Challa tells Erik, as he and Shuri turn to leave. His voice is calm and level (he has never seemed angry, even from the beginning, when Erik first opened his eyes), although Erik cannot fathom why. If someone had tried to usurp _Erik_ , had tried to take _his_ throne and _kill his sister_ , their ashes would be floating in the wind right now. Erik doesn't understand, doesn't remember much of anything at all, but _this_ he knows, intimately, memories or no: _vengeance_.

Blood for blood. 

The sudden dark feeling passes, leaving Erik feeling confused and hollow.

The door slides shut behind T'Challa and Shuri. 

Alone now, Erik desperately tries to gather his thoughts, searching through his mind for any memories he could grasp.

Anything at all. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> T'Challa struggles with feelings of guilt. Erik struggles with feelings of murder.

No one on the royal council believes that Erik has lost his memory.

T'Challa has to admit to himself that it is an exceedingly unlikely story. If he hadn't been there, he wouldn't have believed Erik either. But he had seen Erik's alarm and confusion with his own eyes. There had been a naked vulnerability in Erik's expressions that was impossible to fake. 

And... the way that Erik had drawled " _Hey, handsome_ ," with that mischievous light in his eyes?

If Erik had been in his right mind - if he hadn't lost his memories ( _lost his self, _a little voice inside T'Challa's head whispers), he would _never_ have done something like that.

T'Challa can feel a flush creeping up his neck. He quickly shakes his head to clear it. His own _cousin_ \- how can he have these feelings? 

_The real Erik hates me_, T'Challa reminds himself. _He wants me dead._

That thought does not bring T'Challa any comfort. 

He focuses, drawing his wandering mind back to the council meeting. "It is clear that he is trying to evade punishment for his crimes - " someone is saying. The discussion has been going on in the same vein for the past hour.

It's time to cut it short. T'Challa stands up. 

"I will take your opinions into consideration," T'Challa says, as diplomatically as he can manage. "I think it's best that I spend more time with Erik to evaluate his state of mind. If he is indeed deceiving us, he will not be able to hide it for long. But if he has truly lost his memories...we cannot punish someone for something he does not remember. It would be unjust."

Not all of the Councillors look satisfied by his decision. A good half of them still look sceptical, and the representative of the Border tribe looks particularly displeased. The Border tribe had lost several members in their clash against the Jabari, and are even now in the process of arranging funerals for their fallen kin. Erik's insurrection had caused the deaths of at least ten warriors on both sides of the conflict. 

T'Challa sighs. Wakandans had not fought Wakandans for a good hundred years. All that had changed in the first days of his reign.

With that uncomfortable thought in his head, T'Challa leaves the chamber, the Dora Milaje falling into step behind him.

* * *

Shuri is waiting for him in the corridor, an uncharacteristically sombre expression on her face.

"How's Erik doing?" T'Challa asks. 

"Physically, he's fine," Shuri says, falling into step beside him. "He doesn't have any brain lesions, or in fact any localized brain damage at all. His procedural memory still works - he remembers _how_ to do things, and he can retain and form new memories just fine. He just can't recall any memories of his past."

"And can you - "

"Fix your broken boy?" Shuri completes, laughing a little. She quickly becomes serious again. "The memory loss he suffered isn't the same as what happened to Bucky. Bucky was brainwashed and programmed to respond to specific triggers. To fix Bucky, it was just a matter of rolling back his programming and decoupling the triggers from his mental substrate.

"But Erik has trauma-induced retrograde amnesia. He was knocked about during the fight, and when he bled out after you stabbed him, he actually _died_ for a little bit. His mind shut down, and when it restarted, I don't think it rebooted at one hundred percent." 

The computer analogy washes over T'Challa,  but Shuri's words bring up the memory of his final fight with Erik. T'Challa shivers a little. Erik, dying in his arms. The defiant words he had choked out, as blood filled his lungs, " _Death...is better than bondage_."

Well. Neither of _those_ are going to happen, if T'Challa can help it. 

"So how can Erik get his memory back?" T'Challa asks. 

"He might never," Shuri says, shrugging. "Or it might all come back to him eventually. It's hard to predict when it comes to amnesia. Sometimes, the mind just doesn't want to remember."

"Oh," T'Challa says. Perhaps that is for the best?

Shuri continues, "You can also show him around Wakanda and try to trigger some of his memories. And you can tell him basic biographical information. But _don't_ bring up any specific incidents - let him try to recover the memories on his own. It'll reduce the chance of his mind constructing false memories based on what you tell him, which could really fuck him up." 

Shuri taps a kimoyo bead on her bracelet. "I've just transferred Erik's bio to you. You can go over that with him. Anything else, he should try to remember on his own."

"Thanks, Shuri," T'Challa says. "This...you're great. Thanks."

Shuri looks directly in his eyes. "What are going to do about him? If he recovers his memories?"

"I don't know," T'Challa sighs. "But I can't just leave him like this. After everything we've done to him... Father killed Uncle, and left Erik behind. And then Erik tried to kill me, and I _did_  manage to kill him," T'Challa shakes his head. "There's been enough killing in this family. I couldn't just leave Erik to die if there was still a chance that you could save him."

"None of that was your fault," Shuri assures him. "You had nothing to do with Uncle, and you were only defending yourself from Erik."

"No," T'Challa says. Guilt weighs heavy in his stomach. "You don't know the whole story. I failed Erik, too. When he first arrived with Klaue's body, I already knew who he was."

"What?!" Shuri exclaims.

T'Challa can't meet his sister's eyes. "I saw Erik's ring when we first met in Korea. When I returned to Wakanda, I made Zuri tell me what Father had done. So when Erik showed up  with Klaue...I already knew he was our cousin, and that our father had killed his father. I should have acknowledged Erik then, admitted our mistakes, and we might have been able to talk things out." 

T'Challa looks down at his hands. "But I was a coward. I was too ashamed to admit what we had done to Erik, and that even despite all this, he had still managed to succeed where we had all failed by killing Klaue. I refused to acknowledge Erik's blood right until he declared himself and gave me no other choice.

"But at that time, Erik _knew_ that I knew who he was, and that I had wanted to cover it up. In a way.... I am just as guilty as Father."

Shuri looks extremely disturbed. For once, she's speechless.

T'Challa sighs. "It's my fault. I wronged Erik, and now I have another chance to put things right. I can't screw this up."

They reach the door of Shuri's lab. "I'm going now," T'Challa says. 

He takes a deep breath.

* * *

The room door slides open with a soft hiss. Erik looks up. 

It's T'Challa - the _king,_ he thinks to himself. The king does not look pleased. Erik's heart flips. 

"What's wrong?" Erik asks. 

T'Challa blinks at him. "It's...not of your doing," he says. He seems surprised that Erik had bothered to ask.

Erik wonders what sort of person he had been, before, that T'Challa would be surprised by this simple concern.

It's not a pleasant thought.

"I have spoken to Shuri," T'Challa says. He explains what Shuri had said about traumatic  memory loss and how Erik would have to try to recall his memories on his own. 

"I suppose that makes sense," Erik says, dejected. He should have known that there would be no quick fix to this. 

"I can share this with you though," T'Challa says. A projection appears in front of T'Challa - Erik's bio, which Shuri had transferred to T'Challa earlier. Erik moves next to T'Challa to read it, ignoring T'Challa's intake of breath as he shifts close:

  * _N'Jadaka, alias Erik Stevens, alias Erik Killmonger_
  * _Born in Oakland, USA to Prince N'Jobu and Lisa Stevens_
  * Education: US Naval Academy; Massachusetts Institute of Technology 
  * _Career: US Navy Seal; CIA Black Ops; JSOC Ghost Unit_



The faintest flickers of memories stir in Erik, but fade away just as quickly as he attempts to grasp on. Each word in the bio seems at once familiar, yet strangely detached.

"N'Jadaka?" Erik sounds out. The name doesn't feel like...himself.

"Yes," T'Challa says. "That is the name given to you by your father."

"I think I prefer Erik," Erik says. There's something important about  _N'Jadaka_ that he can't remember. Some sort of...missing purpose.

"And my father, that's Prince N'Jobu?"

"Yes," T'Challa says. "Your father and mine were brothers. We're cousins."

A strange dark feeling - rage, pain, _violence_ \- howls through Erik. The urge to _kill_ something rises, then drains away in a flash. The intensity of the dark feeling scares him. 

Erik sighs in frustration. He can't even remember the faces of his own parents. More than that, he has the persistent feeling that he has _forgotten_ something - something extremely important about Prince N'Jobu. Something dark.

Erik looks at T'Challa, grounding himself. The king's eyes are warm and sad, touched with a deep feeling that Erik can't explain. This close, Erik can almost feel the heat radiating from his skin. He tries to immerse himself in that warmth, pushing away the darkness.

"And the rest of it," Erik says. "Navy Seal, CIA Black Ops -" 

_FLASH!_

_Two young girls in headscarves, their arms wrapped around each other, crying. In front of them, a bearded man lies on the hard concrete floor in a spreading pool of blood, his body riddled with bullet holes. Erik stands in front of them, holding a gun, feeling nothing but dark satisfaction._

_Another kill. Another scar._

"Oh fuck," Erik says faintly.

He remembers the missions. 

One hundred missions. One hundred kills. Up close and at a distance, his enemies dead before they even knew what was happening. Before they even had time to scream.

He had been so very, _very_ good at it. 

And through all that death, nothing but the same feeling of dark satisfaction and _purpose_. No wavering. No regrets.

Erik feels sick. 

"Fuck!" he says again. 

T'Challa looks concerned. Questioning. 

"I remember the CIA," Erik says numbly. "I did it - I killed -"

Erik feels cold. He looks down at his hands - the hands of a killer. Each raised scar a reminder of a life taken. And for what?

The scars itch, now. Suddenly Erik wants nothing more than to scratch them off his skin. He begins to rub vigorously at his forearm. 

T'Challa catches his wrist.

"Don't," T'Challa says gently. "You'll hurt yourself."

"I deserve it," Erik whispers. Shame and self-loathing fills him. "I killed them all. I tried to kill you."

He can guess why, now. He wanted the throne, Shuri had said. Wanted to rule Wakanda. And for that, he had joined the CIA, killed for them, until one day he had been strong enough to challenge the throne. Killed and killed, for no reason other than his cold ambition.

There was an awful feeling of truth to that logic.

What sort of monster was he?

"You should kill me," he whispers to T'Challa, bowing his head. "What I've done..."

" _Never_ ," T'Challa hisses. His grip on Erik's wrist tightens. 

T'Challa holds on.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I'm absolutely blown away by the response to chapter 1! Thank you all so much!


	3. Chapter 3

It's three days before Erik sees T'Challa again. 

Erik passes the days sulking in his room, a knot of self-loathing and guilt constricting his heart.

His room is in the royal family's living quarters, down the corridor from T'Challa's. It's richly furnished, with a sinfully luxorious upholstered bed fit for a king - but everything in his room is laid out in a completely impersonal manner. There are no personal effects in his room. Nothing to jog his memory at all.

Then again, Erik isn't certain that he _wants_ his memory back anymore. The memories he's managed to recover so far - memories of blood and death and _satisfaction_ \- have been unpleasant, to say the least. 

"Did I use to live here?" Erik tentatively asks the two Dora Milaje standing guard at his door. 

They ignore him, as they've always done. His attempts to engage them in conversation these past few days have always fallen flat - they do nothing but give him dark stares. Not a very chatty bunch. Erik wonders whether his past self had done something to piss them off, or if they were just naturally hostile. He can't remember either way, but strongly suspects that it's a mixture of both. 

In fact, since he had woken up, the only person in Wakanda who _hadn't_ been actively hostile towards him had been T'Challa.

T'Challa, whom Erik had tried to kill. 

Erik sighs.

* * *

On the afternoon of the third day, T'Challa returns. 

Erik hears the footsteps first - the footsteps of T'Challa's entire contingent. The royal guards are not quiet.

He rounds the corner and comes face to face with T'Challa, flanked by two rows of Dora Milaje. Upon seeing him, T'Challa's face breaks into a smile.

"Erik," he greets. He motions for the Dora Milaje to leave. "How have you been?"

Erik swallows down the almost-automatic reply of _Terrible. I missed you._ "Fine," he says instead, brusquely, as noncommittally as he can manage. Watches T'Challa's eyes crinkle in a smile. 

"Let's go for a walk," T'Challa says. 

* * *

T'Challa leads him out of the palace, taking a long, winding path through the surrounding streets. 

Wakanda is beautiful, its streets and buildings shining with a warm golden fire in the late afternoon sun. Erik turns his head this way and that, entranced by the unfamiliar sights. The crowds part before them like a wave. Erik tries to avoid looking too closely at the expressions on their faces, not wanting to see their reactions to him, to the unknown sins of his past self.

"Where are we going?" Erik asks.

"I thought we could go and see the sunset," T'Challa says. "You used to like it, you know. Before."

The word _sunset_ stirs up the faintest memories, flickers of warmth. Phantom pain. 

Erik briefly touches the scar on his chest, over his heart. 

"Sorry," T'Challa murmurs, watching him.

Erik doesn't ask why.

* * *

They ascend the steps of the Panther Mound. Below them, Wakanda lays spread out like a tapestry, a scroll of verdant green forests and mountains and soft rolling hills. The setting sun wreathes the landscape in glowing orange flame.

Erik slowly sinks to his knees at the edge of the cliff, stunned by the view. T'Challa sits down beside him. 

This feels familiar. Right.

"My father - " Erik says, then stops, confused. The words are on the tip of his tongue, but the memory slips away.

"He said the sunsets in Wakanda were the most beautiful in the world," T'Challa finishes for him. 

Erik can't speak. This close, he can see every single line, every crease on T'Challa's face. His eyelashes. His lips.

"I'm doing what he wanted," T'Challa continues. "What you both wanted. I've been at the United Nations these past few days. We will be opening up Wakanda and sharing our technology with the world. Building bridges, not fences."

The knot in Erik's chest constricts. Loosens. All this sounds wonderful, but he suspects that T'Challa is glossing over quite a lot with this summary - surely what his past self had wanted hadn't been something as innocuous as an _outreach programme_.

"Huh," Erik says. "You sure that's _really_ all I want?"

He doesn't miss the darkening of T'Challa's eyes, the way T'Challa's stare drifts down towards his lips. 

Erik lunges forward, pushing their mouths together in a punishing kiss, feeling a thrill run through him at T'Challa's soft breathy gasp of surprise. The kiss tastes like fire. Victory. Nothing in the world could feel more right than this.

Erik wraps an arm around T'Challa's waist, bearing down on T'Challa, pushing him gently towards the ground. Raising his other hand, he cups T'Challa's face, tracing his jawline, his cheekbones. He nips softly at T'Challa's bottom lip, catching it with capped golden canines.

T'Challa shudders. He stiffens, then raises his hand to push gently against Erik's chest. 

"Erik!" T'Challa gasps, conflict crossing his face. "We can't."

"Fuck that," Erik says. He leans down to nuzzle at T'Challa's neck, making him shiver. _Good._ Too bad T'Challa still doesn't shut up. 

_"_ Erik, we really shouldn't," T'Challa protests.

"Tell me you don't want this," Erik challenges him.

" _You_ don't want this," T'Challa counters. "You don't remember - you hate me, you don't know what you want - "

"This is what I want," Erik hisses, frustrated. "I want this - _I want you -_ "

"You want to _kill_ me," T'Challa says. 

"And _you_ want to fuck me," Erik snarls. Watches the embarrassed flush spread over T'Challa's face.  God, it's fucking hot. "Let's just get the fuck on with it."

T'Challa's face closes off. "Get up," he says, pushing at Erik.

"No," Erik says. 

"Get up," T'Challa repeats. "I won't ask a third time."

"Make me," Erik taunts.

T'Challa activates the Black Panther habit. The vibranium suit spreads over him from the fanged silver necklace, covering every inch of exposed skin as Erik gasps, stunned. 

T'Challa flips Erik onto his back in a flash, pinning Erik under him. Erik looks up into the emotionless eyes of the Black Panther helm, gaping in shock.

"You can find your own way back from here," T'Challa tells Erik, voice deep and distorted by the suit.

He leaves without another word.

 


	4. Chapter 4

 T'Challa is avoiding him.

It's briefly amusing at first - _T'Challa_   _can't keep himself from jumping me if he sees me, huh?_ Erikthinks - but it quickly becomes absolutely _infuriating_.

 _The king of Wakanda is a fucking coward_ , Erik thinks to himself savagely, stalking the palace halls in a towering fit of rage. For some reason, being fucking pissed off at T'Challa feels _extremely_ familiar. 

Councillors scatter before Erik, diving out of his way with looks of alarm on their faces. Erik ignores them.

His Dora Milaje guards ( _babysitters sent by T'Challa,_ Erik thinks bitterly) follow him even more closely than before. Erik ignores them too.

All his pent-up rage and sexual frustration need an outlet. Erik takes to jerking himself off several times a day - quick angry tugs of his cock, coming with the whisper of  _T'Challa_ on his lips. 

It's not enough. It never is.

* * *

He spends hours in the gym, now, trying to work off his aggression. Strips himself to the waist and tries to drown out his feelings of anger, frustration (and yes, _hurt_ ) by attacking the various punching bags really hard. 

"I don't have _feelings_ ," Erik mutters to himself, emphasising the last word with a particularly vicious punch. His knuckles hurt. He doesn't turn around, but he can somehow feel his two Dora Milaje guards exchange raised eyebrows behind him. Pussies. 

"Wanna fight me?" Erik challenges. 

He doesn't expect a response, but to his surprise, one of them steps up. Okoye. 

They spar on a raised platform in the middle of the training gym. Okoye doesn't have Erik's brute strength, but she moves with sleek panther grace, inhumanly quick and fierce. She counters Erik's favourite opening moves easily, almost as if she can predict where they're going to land before he even moves to strike. Strange, unless - 

"We've fought before," Erik says in realisation.

Okoye doesn't answer. Mouth set in a grim line, she counterattacks. 

"Bet I beat you," Erik taunts. Wrong thing to say. If anything, Okoye's strikes become even more vicious, pushing Erik back towards the edge of the platform. 

Erik can feel eyes on him. Raising his head, he looks over Okoye's shoulder. T'Challa is standing in the doorway, his eyes on Erik and Erik alone. His gaze flickers over Erik's glistening bare torso, hungry, devouring.

Spellbound, Erik misses his parry. In a flash, Okoye puhes her entire body weight down on him, slamming him against the ground. Erik gasps, the wind knocked out of him as he lands flat on his back. T'Challa takes an aborted step forward, concern spreading across his face, before he manages to catch himself. He freezes.

"Come and get it, kitten," Erik purrs, eyes locked on T'Challa. He shifts, spreading his legs a little and angling his hips ever so slightly upwards.

"What the fuck?!" Okoye snaps. She turns her head to follow Erik's gaze, eyes widening as she catches sight of T'Challa. "My King," she says, straightening up. 

T'Challa nods at them. "Carry on," he says brusquely, in a slightly hoarse voice. He turns to leave.

"Pussy!" Erik calls after T'Challa's disappearing back. 

T'Challa ignores him. What's new?

* * *

There's a fire burning within Erik, fierce and dark and hot. 

This can't go on, or he'll lose what little shreds he still has of his mind. He wonders if this argument will be enough to convince T'Challa. Probably not. 

He really _really_ needs his memories back, or T'Challa will never make a move. _Too damn honourable_ , he thinks with a sneer, but his heart constricts with an almost appalling fondness all the same. 

He decides to go and see his other cousin instead. Shuri is a genius, supposedly. She'll know what to do.

* * *

"Hey cuz," Erik greets, stepping into Shuri's lab. 

Shuri glances at him, a cool assessing stare, and then continues her work - fiddling with some sort of gauntlet streaked with glowy blue vibranium. Erik hovers awkwardly by the door. 

Finally, Shuri takes pity on him and looks up. "What do you want, Erik?" she asks. 

"I need my memories back," Erik says in a rush. "What do I gotta do?"

Shuri frowns. "I thought T'Challa explained it to you? You can't rush the process, or you run the risk of developing false memories. The memories may come back to you eventually, or they may not."

"Fuck!" Erik swears, flopping to sit in an empty chair. "I need them back now. _Now_ ," he repeats plaintively, trying not to whine. "You sure you don't have some sort of gadget that can zap me all better?"

"Nothing like that exists," Shuri assures him.

"Fuck," Erik groans, dragging a hand through his dreadlocks. "Y'all royals. Y'all are the fucking worst."

Shuri's eyes narrow. " _You're_ a prince, Erik," Shuri reminds him. "Now what brought this on?"

"Nothing," Erik mutters. No way is he going to tell Shuri that he wants - _needs_ \- to fuck her brother. She's probably too young to have a stroke, but he's not gonna risk it.

"You're mad at my brother?" Shuri deduces. 

"No shit _,_ " Erik snaps. Shuri is starting to look worried, as if Erik is about to step right out of the lab and merrily murder her brother, so he hastens to explain. "I - he - he wants me to remember first. Before he - uh - nothing. Nothing! But, y'know. I'm still me."

Shuri looks baffled.

"I'm still the same person, you know," Erik continues. "It's not like I'm a _different_ person. I want what I want, believe it. I'm like, a _better_ person now. At least I'm not a fucking psychopath anymore." Erik scowls. "Y'know what? I changed my mind, I _don't_ want my memories back. I don't wanna remember anything at all, and His Royal Highness can fucking deal with it. I don't wanna remember shit. You hear that, Princess? You go and tell your brother I said that."

"Maybe you should try talking to him," Shuri suggests, reasonably, starting to smile a little.

Erik frowns. "Thanks for nothing, Princess," he snipes.

* * *

He does think about it, though.

_Try talking to him_ , Shuri had said. Easy enough for her to say. Flirting with T'Challa was easy, sure. Kissing him. Getting a rise out of him. But to talk to T'Challa, without pretense, to bare his very soul? The idea alone scares Erik, makes his hands shake.

_I'm not a fucking coward_ , Erik tells himself. _The king of Wakanda may be a fucking coward, but I'm not._

The king. T'Challa. His room, right down the hall. 

Erik grits his teeth, clenches his hands and goes out before he loses his nerve.

* * *

Erik hammers on T'Challa's bedroom door with one closed fist.

"I know you're in there, you fucking coward!" he yells. "Come out here!"

The Dora Milaje glare at him.

"Come out and talk to me, dammit!" Erik shouts, undeterred.

The Dora Milaje march close. One of them levels her spear at him. "Do not disturb the King's rest," she says coldly.

Erik ignores them. "Yeah, I'mma stay out here all night!" he yells, pounding on the door. "I'm gonna - "

The door opens abruptly. T'Challa steps out, with a look of irritation on his face. Erik falls silent, his mouth suddenly feeling dry. 

"Thank you, I'll take it from here," T'Challa says coolly to the Dora Milaje. He turns to Erik, "You. Come in."

* * *

The door closes behind them. "Well?" T'Challa says irritably. "What do you want to discuss?"

Erik swallows. He hadn't actually planned this far ahead. He stares at T'Challa instead, suddenly tongue-tied. T'Challa is dressed in a loosely-tied sleeping robe, black with silver swirls near the collar. The robe falls open almost to his navel. It's very becoming.

The air in the room suddenly feels warm, stuffy. Erik tugs at his collar absentmindedly. 

"Erik," T'Challa says, annoyed. "If you have nothing to say - "

"Look, shut up, this is hard for me to say, okay?!" Erik snaps. "You fucking - I want to - I don't want to mess this up. You fucking asshole." 

He's messed it up, now. T'Challa looks, if possible, even more annoyed. Erik looks down at his feet, so he doesn't have to look at T'Challa's face. He's distracted by T'Challa's footwear - some sort of horrible black sandals with _socks_.

"What the fuck are those, man?" Erik demands.

"Never mind my sandals," T'Challa says, the hints of a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. It's fucking _cute_. A cute little smile. God, Erik is done for. 

"Come on, I'm listening," T'Challa says gently. 

Erik grits his teeth. Closes his eyes, so he doesn't have to look at T'Challa's damn face. To the darkness, he announces, "I don't want to kill you."

There's a confused pause. "...Okay?" T'Challa says.

"Actually..." Erik confesses, sweating, his voice shaking a little, "I like you. Uh...I like you a lot."

There's a longer pause. Erik musters up his courage, opens his eyes. To his fury, T'Challa is looking sad and disappointed.

"I know you think you do," T'Challa says. "But your memories - "

"Never mind my memories!" Erik yells. "They're not important! Okay? I'm still the same fucking person!"

"You aren't," T'Challa says, with finality in his voice.

"Yeah, okay, fine, I'm not," Erik admits. "I'm better now, okay? I'm not - I know, I know I was a fucking psychopath. I dunno why you think that's what I really am - " Fuck. He's getting choked up now. "- but I'm not - I'm not that person, okay? I'm not that. I'm never gonna be that again."

"Erik," T'Challa says gently, soothingly. 

"Shut up. You shut up. Let me finish." Tears are gathering in his eyes. Impatiently, he brushes them away with the back of his hand. "Look, I know - I know I hurt y'all, I know I was a shitty fucking person. I'm sorry, okay? I'm so fucking sorry. I'd never have - I'll never do that shit again. I don't - I won't - I'm not gonna be that again. That's not me." He stops, panting for breath, glaring at T'Challa.

"I believe you, Erik," T'Challa says gently. He reaches out, placing a hand on Erik's shoulder. "It's alright. I believe you."

"I don't want those memories back," Erik says firmly. "I don't care if I never remember again."

"Erik," T'Challa murmurs. "Erik, you need to know - "

"If this is about something that happened in my fucking past, _I don't fucking need to know_ ," Erik hisses. "I don't fucking _want_ to know, okay? Keep it to your damn self. I don't care, it's over and done with, I never wanna hear - I never wanna hear anything - I never wanna hear about anything ever again. Just - just shut up."

"...Okay," T'Challa murmurs, resigned. "I understand. If you're sure."

"I'm fucking sure," Erik mutters. He feels raw, broken. He looks up at T'Challa, but T'Challa doesn't say anything, only reaches a hand out to gently brush Erik's locks from his face.

"Anything else?" T'Challa says quietly. 

And oh, even after all he'd already said, how much of himself he'd already exposed, it was still so, so hard to force the next words out of his mouth.

"I want you," Erik whispers. "If you'll have me."

This time, T'Challa kisses him first.

* * *

It's a soft, gentle kiss. If their first kiss had tasted of fire - victory - this kiss is like water, like the all-embracing sea. T'Challa gathers Erik in his arms, pulling him close, and Erik clings onto T'Challa like a lifeline. He closes his eyes, lets himself sink into the kiss, letting go of his guilt, his pain. He's floating.

"T'Challa," he whispers. 

"Bed," T'Challa says. Erik complies, tearing his shirt off, appreciating the way T'Challa's eyes darken with desire. He reaches out, loosening the ties of T'Challa's robe as T'Challa maneuvers him towards the bed. Erik sinks backwards into unimaginable softness as T'Challa bears down on him  - the king _would_ have the best bed in the whole fucking palace. 

"Wanted you so bad," Erik breathes, reaching down to unbutton his pants, kicking them off, "since I first opened my eyes, man, you looked like a fucking feast." His cock is already hard, the tip leaking precum. He rubs himself briefly, groans.

T'Challa crouches above him, fully naked, grinding down on him like a panther in heat. "Erik," he says huskily, "Will you let me-?"

"Fuck yeah, go on. Make me scream."

T'Challa reaches down, one finger encircling Erik's hole, as he reaches his other hand out to grab the lube on the bedside table. He rubs Erik's rim with the pad of his index finger as he flips the bottle open with his other hand, spilling the lube on his palm. 

"Don't fucking tease," Erik laughs, licking his lips. He surges up to kiss T'Challa, hungrily, spreading his legs wide to straddle T'Challa's waist. T'Challa brings his now-slick fingers towards Erik's hole, stroking gently from his balls down his taint. He dips the tip of a finger in.

"Nnngh!" Erik gasps. 

"Does it hurt?" T'Challa stops, concerned. 

"No, no, fuck, keep going, keep fucking going," Erik gasps impatiently. "C'mon, fuck me, I want it hard."

T'Challa's smirking at him now, fingers twisting in and out of Erik, scissoring him open. Erik whimpers at the stimulation, squirming, squeezing his eyes shut as he desperately tries not to come before T'Challa's even managed to fuck him properly. 

"Look at me," T'Challa orders. Erik's eyes fly open, locking onto T'Challa's. 

"That's enough," Erik pants. "I'm ready, c'mon. Give it to me."

T'Challa reaches down, guides his cock towards Erik's slick hole. He pushes himself in slowly, his eyes never leaving Erik's.

"Ahhh!" Erik does scream now, a little. The entry burns slightly, making him writhe, even with T'Challa going as slowly as possible. T'Challa runs his hands down Erik's chest, tracing his scars soothingly, petting him. 

"I'm okay," Erik gasps. "I'm good, fuck, it's fucking good."

T'Challa begins to thrust now, more forcefully. Erik's fingers scrabble at T'Challa's back as he moves in rhythm with T'Challa's thrusts. He knows he won't be able to last long, not like this.

"T'Challa, fuck, I'm gonna - " 

Erik's cock jerks, and he's coming, spurting against their joint bellies. T'Challa follows him right after, his body shuddering to a still above him as he pumps his release deep into Erik.

T'Challa collapses next to him on the bed, spent. Erik turns his head to grin at him, feeling pleasantly warm, flushed. He stretches like a sated feline.

"Erik," T'Challa murmurs warmly. He cups Erik's face, running his fingers over Erik's cheekbones. T'Challa is about to say something ridiculously sappy, Erik knows it. He wraps an arm around T'Challa, cuddling close. 

"S' okay," Erik murmurs. "You don't hafta say it. I know."

Erik closes his eyes.

* * *

Erik drowses for a while. It's nice, sharing a bed with someone. Can't remember the last time he's done that.

But it seems that in no time at all, T'Challa's nudging him awake again. 

"What, you wanna go for another round?" Erik asks, laughing. 

"Maybe in the morning. Here, let me clean you up."

T'Challa's holding a damp cloth between his fingers. Erik obligingly spreads his legs,  lifts his hips so T'Challa can wipe him clean down below. He finishes, then moves on to the stains on Erik's stomach. Erik watches his nimble fingers work, eyes half-closed.

"Hey,  you didn't take your ring off," Erik notices sleepily. "Let me - "

_The ring._

The ring, black and shiny, threaded through with silver vibranium, looks awfully familiar. Almost like he's seen it somewhere before.

Almost like - 

Almost like -

Erik freezes, stiffens, memories crashing through his mind.

The world crashes.


	5. Chapter 5

Erik can't speak. Can't move.

He's frozen in horror, staring at the ring as his memories flood back.

A spaceship, lifting off from the top floor of his building ( _it's true, it's all true, Pops hadn't just been making up stories, there really was a_ _magic kingdom with magic metals and magic flowers and magic panthers_ ). Watching, eyes wide, heart bursting with delight and -

Opening the door, finding his father lying dead on the floor of their tiny apartment. Murdered, _assassinated_ , with _panther claws_  in his chest and -

The _ring,_ still laced around his father's neck, black threaded through with silver and stained with _blood_ and -

And -

And -

Pain and horror and rage, white-hot fury that solidifies into resolve. _Vengeance_.

Uncle James, gone all of a sudden (assassinated, too? Or had he been working with the Wakandans to bring down his father all along?)

T'Chaka, the king (the  _murderer_ ). His uncle, who had assassinated his own brother.

T'Challa, T'Chaka's golden boy. The spoiled, privileged son of the king (the son of a  _murderer_ ) _._

Wakanda, which didn't want Erik (had never wanted him), which stood by and _watched_ , enjoying their peaceful, prosperous lives behind their vibranium walls while their own people suffered and died.

_Imma burn it down._

_I'll burn it all!_

* * *

T'Challa is looking at Erik, realisation slowly dawning in his eyes. 

"Erik," he says. "You remember-?"

Erik is so angry that he can't even breathe. "You sick _fuck!"_ he cries. He recoils from T'Challa, scrambling off the bed. Erik is shaking, panting, torn between two competing urges of _getting as far away from T'Challa as possible_ and _leaning over to throttle the life out of him_. He settles for punching T'Challa in the face.

T'Challa doesn't dodge. Doesn't even flinch, although Erik knows that with the power of the Black Panther, T'Challa could've easily stopped the blow. "Erik," T'Challa tries to say. "I'm sorry - "

"Oh, you're _fucking sorry?"_ Erik snarls. "You - you're - " he's normally great with insults, but he can't think of a word bad enough to express how much he _hates_ T'Challa, how badly T'Challa had wronged him. He hits T'Challa again, hard, this time splitting his knuckles against the side of T'Challa's jaw.

T'Challa doesn't resist, although that had to have hurt - there's already a trickle of blood running out of the side of his mouth. "Erik, I know I should have told you -"

" _Told me?_ You should have fucking _let me die!_ I wanted to die! I'd rather die than - than -" he can't continue. It's too horrible to contemplate, the knowledge that he had _let T'Challa fuck him_ , had _spread his legs and begged for it_ , had _liked_ it, oh god. Erik feels violated. He feels worse than violated - he feels betrayed. Betrayed by T'Challa, by his own body, by his own _mind_. He wants to throw up.

"You should have killed me when you had the chance, _cuz_ ," Erik hisses. He closes his hands around T'Challa's throat, clenching his fingers tight, digging into T'Challa's neck. T'Challa gasps, eyes watering, but he still doesn't resist. Doesn't fight back. Only looks up at Erik, wide-eyed, tearful. Guilty.

_Strangulation._

A memory of his instructor at Annapolis, lecturing the class of new recruits. 

_Strangulation. It takes thirty seconds to cause a human being to fall unconscious during strangulation. Three minutes to cause deoxygenation of the air in the lungs and bloodstream. Five minutes to cause death, or at the very least permanent brain damage._

Tears well up in Erik's eyes. He holds on. 

Ten seconds.

Twenty seconds.

Thirty seconds.

T'Challa still isn't unconscious. His wet brown eyes are still open. Must be the damn heart-shaped herb. Those fucking magic flowers.

Erik holds on.

Forty seconds.

"Don't look at me like that, man," Erik whispers. "Don't fucking look at me like that."

And damn, if T'Challa doesn't actually close his eyes. Lets his eyelids flutter shut, dropping his head back. Making it easier for Erik to choke the life out of him.

An inarticulate cry tears loose from Erik's throat. His grip loosens.

He can't do it.

His entire life, waiting for this moment. Studying, training, killing, Afghanistan, Iraq, Klaue, _Linda_. All that death, and he still can't do this. Everything that T'Challa has taken from him - his body, his choices, his _death_ - and yet he still can't do this.

Erik lets his hands fall away from T'Challa's throat. Backs away from the bed.

He runs. 

* * *

The streets are dark and empty, and Erik doesn't have a guide with him this time round, but he still remembers how to find the way up the Panther Mound. 

Wakanda is still beautiful, even in the blue-black darkness before daybreak, gleaming under the wash of the Milky Way in the high heavens. Venus is rising in the low eastern horizon, with Jupiter in descent.

This would have been a good place to die, Erik reflects. Calm. Peaceful. With Wakanda spread out before him, shining like a jewel that he hadn't managed to break.

Erik sinks to the ground at the edge of the cliff, hugging his knees to his chest and burying his head in his arms. He cries until his throat hurts.

When he finally raises his head, he isn't surprised to see T'Challa sitting beside him.

"Thought you might come here," T'Challa says quietly, voice hoarse. He looks terrible, Erik thinks. Split lip, blackening eye, finger marks developing into bruises around his throat. Shuri would flip.

"I hate you," Erik tells him, dully. "I'm going to kill you."

There's no conviction behind his words. Even Erik himself doesn't believe it.

"I am sorry, N'Jadaka," T'Challa says. "I - "

"Shut up," Erik says tiredly. He can't bear to hear more apologies. Not when he knows - when he remembers how, at every turn, T'Challa had tried to let him down, tried to tell him what had happened, and _Erik_ had been the one who hadn't wanted to hear it. 

Fuck. He's crying again. He had thought he'd already run out of tears.

T'Challa reaches out, tentatively. When Erik doesn't pull away, T'Challa slowly, gently puts his arm around Erik's shoulders. A familiar embrace, like the first time they'd watched the sunset together.

That time, Erik had been mortally stabbed through the chest. Sliced lungs, pierced heart. He had thought he'd known pain, then.

Somehow, this hurts more.

_It's all right_ , T'Challa whispers, stroking his back as Erik cries into his shoulder. T'Challa wraps his arms around Erik, holding him close. Whispers the words Erik hadn't allowed him to say after they had slept together:  _Erik. N'Jadaka, it's all right. We'll work it out. I love you._

T'Challa slides a hand under Erik's chin, gently tilting his head up. 

"See? The sun is rising."

 

THE END

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your wonderful comments, I had a blast writing this! Special thanks to fuyuanzai, eternusmysterium and anyone else who left a comment on each chapter - thanks for being so supportive, I really loved reading what you all thought!
> 
> This is the end of A Love Like War. There will not be a sequel, although I'll probably (hopefully!) write many more t'cherik fics in the future. Hope to see yall around for those too!


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